05 MAN FRM UNCLE: The Back to the Beginning Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: What will the end result be of not only a direct attack upon the New York UNCLE, but the finally successful entry into the past to erase Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin for good? Read after THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR & THE RETURN TO RAGE AFFAI
1. Chapter 1

**THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR**

Chapter 1

"This isn't standard operating procedure"

"Sir," the jumpsuit-and-bereted THRUSH thug said with a snap, as he stiffly stepped through from the opposite side of the instantly sliding open door leading from subterranean exterior corridor to innermost office of his despotic superior, the heavily half-scarred Darien Driscoll. "It has arrived, sir."

"Good," the man with the half-melted mien, thanks solely to two aged agents of U.N.C.L.E. "Send it in. Quickly!"

Standing aside and at attention, his machinegun capable Heckler-Koch MP7 A1 at the ready across his chest, the THRUSH thug allowed easy access to a machine tech in khaki, Nick Berlinetta, currently carrying a shock-resistant box twice the size of a Human head.

"Well?" snidely insisted this singular global leader of THRUSH with a half-frown intended as an inferred warning to not disappoint Darien Driscoll.

"It is complete, sir," nervously stated the mech-tech via forced smile, even as he sat the big box gently onto the too-perfect top of Darien's old oaken desk, then promptly proceeded to open the multiple latches situated all about its broad base in order to rapidly remove the bulk of the box.

Revealing…

With one greatly ravaged black leather gloved hand and one non-ruined one, Darien reached out to the object of his obsession, the overly-worried Nick Berlinetta could at long last relax and take satisfaction for his mech-team's timely labors.

Slipping such over his half-destroyed countenance, soon the physical source of said satisfaction, by both mech-tech and THRUSH chieftain, covered the whole head and, most importantly to the once-handsome Darien Driscoll, readily hid his half-scarred features behind a beautifully fashioned faux face.

One not only made of heavy-duty metal, but, along with a comfortable-fit interior padding placed so snugly against his ruined-forever visage, a handsome mask mingling gems with illegally gotten elephant ivory.

"You have done well, Mr. Berlinetta," said Darien's voice, artificially transmitted via built-in microphone-and-mini-speaker system. "You shall receive the proper rank increase as a reward. From Mech-Tech Nick Berlinetta to Lead-Mech Nick Berlinetta."

"Th-thank you, Mr. D-Driscoll, sir," stammered the suddenly relieved Lead-Mech Berlinetta, "th-thank y-you. You have n-no idea h-how m-much this…"

"Leave me!" the mini-speaker spoken snarl sternly said, leaving little doubt as to how quickly crazed the THRUSH boss turned out to be.

"Yes, sir," rapidly replied the Lead-Mech, while briskly backing out of the underground headquarters office even as the armed THRUSH thug caused the solid metal entryway to swiftly slide shut and solidly re-secure itself.

"And now," said the masked Darien Driscoll while slowly standing behind his desk with thoughts centered, now, upon much more important matters, "to do what I had failed to do…in a past not my own. Heheheheh."

Meanwhile, half a world away, in New York City, two out-of-retirement U.N.C.L.E. agents, one suave, despite his salt-and-pepper hair and noticeably lined, though handsome, facial features, the other still blonde and blue-eyed with little in the way of age-related lines…

…Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin gradually made their way into the back of a Starbucks, secretly tugged open a false section of supply racks…

…zipped their agent-assigned keycards through a card reader, which easily allowed a flush blast-proof door to automatically unlock and speedily open, only to close just as quickly in their walking wake…

…so both could proceed directly through hallway and antechamber in order to end up inside a specifically assigned U.N.C.L.E. control office.

"Good morning, Napoleon…Illya," grimly greeted Ms. Allison Hall in a vain attempt to seriously suppress her innermost emotions in regards to the Russian-born Agent Number 2, Section 2. Something she'd been battling against since first bringing forth these previously retired, for decades, ex-men from U.N.C.L.E.

Conversely, she made absolutely no attempt to hide her growing agitation in regards to the hazel-eyed sexist-from-the-Sixties, Napoleon Solo. Though she respected his mostly successful skills, mayhap even more so than the boyishly beautiful Illya Kuryakin, she still struggled against the desire to send the philandering lothario back into retirement.

Were it not for the political powers-that-be demanding that this man from U.N.C.L.E. stay active, something most definitely done.

"Good morning, Ms. Hall," said Illya Kuryakin kindly and without a hint of hidden intent.

"Yes, good morning, Ms. Hall," Napoleon clearly chimed in with mock merriment to someone he still, after all these many months of agent reactivation, considered more suited for secretarial designation rather than that granted the director of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement. "You're looking lovelier than usual today. More makeup?"

On the surface, such sounded slightly gracious. But Allison Hall had come to know Napoleon Solo much more completely than that and knew better.

Still, she managed to meander through such begrudging greetings in order to present herself to be what she, like it or not, Napoleon!, was within the hierarchy of U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon Solo's boss.

For her upside-down triangle, color-coded badge held to the irrefutable fact that she was Number 1, Section 1, while Napoleon was Number 11, Section 2. The self-same section as Illya, just not as high in that particular category of U.N.C.L.E. employee.

In other words, Illya Kuryakin ranked far higher on the secret agent food chain…even though they were, in point of fact, a two-man team. And a consistently successful one at that.

"Let us get down to business, shall we?" said Ms. Hall at last with a heavy sigh, just as this pre-mission affair briefing was uncharacteristically interrupted by another agent of Section 2, whose specific numerical classification was "19"…

"Ms. Hall, this just came from Agents 27 and 31 from the field!" excitedly exclaimed this handsome, well-dressed secret agent, whose hair was as dark as Napoleon recalled his having been decades ago. "It was preceded by a vocal-only call proclaiming its importance in stopping THRUSH once and for all!"

As the shoebox-sized, and shaped, box of unyielding metal, gleaming beneath the bright round-the-clock lights of Allison Hall's largely stainless steel office suite, was gently placed onto the polished oval top of the metal escritoire…

"I don't like this," a scowling Illya coldly commented even as U.N.C.L.E. Agent 19 gradually pulled away. "This isn't standard operating procedure."

Something the curiously scowling Napoleon pensively pondered, even as Ms. Hall said with a semi-certain shrug, "Not necessarily, Mr. Kuryakin. Agents 27 and 31 are entrenched behind enemy lines in North Korea and probably would've arranged for this to be hand-delivered before they…"

"Don't open that!" Napoleon loudly exclaimed as the look on Agent 19's suddenly smirking face silently bespoke of a considerably darker, truer intent.

But it was a single second too late…

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR**

Chapter 2

"…just another day at the office"

"Uhhhhnnnn…"

Illya Kuryakin was semi-conscious. Every inch of his over-the-hill physicality was filled with pulsating pain. The distinct taste of blood coated his tongue.

The last thing this man from U.N.C.L.E. could clearly recall, and, just as strangely, in a slow-motion manner, was…

"Don't…open…that!"

A split-second, in real time, such seemed incredibly elongated within the half-conscious mind and memory of Illya, after Napoleon Solo shouted such a last-minute admonition to their U.N.C.L.E. leader, Allison Hall…

…as near instantaneous triggers were tripped after Ms. Hall lifted off the curious box's bulk, Illya valiantly dove over the oval metal desk separating her from these two older U.N.C.L.E operatives...

…spinning her around while also sending both of them down hard to the equally metallic floor as…

BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!

…the resulting explosion savagely tore through her petite torso to destroy not just skin, muscle, and bone, but vital organs, as well and…

…ending up with Illya lying next to a bleeding-out, rapidly dying chief of U.N.C.L.E., as Napoleon lay on the opposite side of the oval metal escritoire.

"Napoleon?" Illya called out with palpable pain still shooting through his extremities, even though, thankfully, no bones were broken.

"I'm…alive, Illya," coughed an equally agonized, but not permanently damaged, Napoleon Solo from the far side of the blast-proof office.

"Ms. Hall?" asked a still-shaken Illya Kuryakin, finally looking at the lovely lady lying close by. "Are you…?"

His question was swallowed whole by what he saw and swiftly substantiated.

Ms. Allison Hall, Number 1, Section 1, was not only bleeding profusely from multiple lacerations all about her head and body, but was quite clearly suffering from extensive internal bleeding, as was evidenced by large amounts of dark red blood slowly pouring from her trembling mouth.

Illya suddenly became completely revitalized and totally neglected his own injuries, while kneeling next to that explosion-shattered, bleeding-out body.

"Ms. Hall? Allison? Just…lie still. We'll get you to Medical and…"

Slightly shaking her head that, due to the damage done to her entire external and internal Self, caused caustic suffering to assault Allison Hall, as those tremulous lips spoke barely loud enough for a leaning nearer Illya to hear at all.

"Illya…I…I l-love…y-you. A-avenge…m—"

With that, her bedroom eyes became milky remnants lifelessly staring out. Her heaving chest, so full and firm, became completely still. Her arms and legs limp and unmoving.

"Allison," barely breathed Illya Kuryakin in agonized realization of not only the love she felt for him, but the sudden ascent of such love he finally felt for her. Tears threatening to expose such to all around, even as a slightly shaking hand slowly closed those once enticing eyes. "I'm…sorry."

What, exactly, Illya was "sorry" about would invariably remain his deep-seated secret. Even from Napoleon Solo, now standing and striding around the orbed desk, whom reacted in a far more common manner.

"Damn."

And what of that traitorously smirking member of U.N.C.L.E., Agent 19, who'd walked hurriedly into the office with a big box supposedly sent from agents-in-the-field holding out the reputed promise of somehow stopping THRUSH for good?

"Well, Napoleon!" Illya said somewhat emotionally, something most definitely not characteristic of the Russian-born secret agent.

"Dead," Napoleon said with a sigh of frustration after pressing the fingertips of one hand against the heavily bloodied neck, directly under the jaw, in order to detect even a faint trace of a pulse. "Looks like THRUSH found a way to 'convince' an actual agent of U.N.C.L.E. into this…suicide bombing. One guess as to who's responsible…"

"Darien Driscoll," snarled Illya so viciously that it actually caused Napoleon to look up with a seldom-seen scowl of disbelief in respect to his Russian friend of 43 years.

"G'day, mates," greeted the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Aussie, Eric Alexander, desperately trying to lighten an extremely tense situation as two over-the-hill agents, having already received treatment for minor injuries in Medical before obtaining freshly tailored suits to replace what the bomb blast had basically ruined. "Uh…sorry 'bout what happened to…"

"What have you got for us, Mr. Alexander?" curtly asked a still-distressed and inwardly irate Illya Kuryakin of the much younger man currently in charge of Section 8, also colloquially called "the Lab", who actually held out hero-worship for this Russian-born older operative.

"Well," Eric readily replied, "we've got no more Walther P38's or pen communicators, lads. As ya already know, such had been completely replaced o'er the years since you two were fresh young faces workin' for U.N.C.L.E., so…"

The big Aussie brought forth specially retooled pistols that instantly snagged the attention of two out-of-retirement secret agents, even as Eric excitedly explained.

"These are Ruger P90s. Both .45 Autos. Hard-coated aircraft-quality aluminum frames. Rugged steel slides. Nearly indestructible polycarbonate grips, willfully formed with finger indents to give an agent better control. Standard clip holds eight rounds. Longer ammo clips available for carbine conversion. Speaking of which…I have improved upon those attachments, mates."

As Eric turned to retrieve said attachments, Illya, still secretly saddened and angered over the loss of Allison Hall, whom he had come to comprehend had a hidden Love for him, and Napoleon looked at one another in an unspoken expression of severe skepticism.

Until this green-eyed young agent in charge of The Lab returned with two new attachment packs, which were also designed to attach to the soft shoulder holster, instead of behind the back, for easier, swifter access.

"Now," said Eric in his Australian accent, "normally you blokes would have to screw on all o' this…the barrel extension, shoulder stock, telescopic sight. But no more! Just for you, my team and I've come up with a powerful magnetic attachment system that'll save precious seconds whene'er ya need to go from pistol to full-auto carbine quickly. Here, mates…try it out."

Handing each the newer, softer shoulder holsters holding easy-access attachment packs and, of course, the black Ruger P90s.

With the practiced skill of decades-old field agents of U.N.C.L.E., both Napoleon and Illya easily slipped out the specially tooled articles that, as so excitedly extolled by the Aussie in custodial care and leadership of The Lab, swiftly and simply slipped into place over barrel, top of pistol, and back of grip. Followed swiftly by the replacing of the normal ammo clip for the extra-long one.

Almost instantly turning pistol into precision carbine. Full-auto capable.

As Illya and Napoleon gave one another nods of mutual admiration, the Aussie said, "And you can turn 'em back into pistols just as quickly. Go ahead, mates."

With the ease, swift and sure, of a child pulling apart Lego blocks, these two older men from U.N.C.L.E. turned carbines back into pistols, as well as more readily replacing these extra-special magnetic attachments into the shoulder-holster positioned packs.

"Not bad, Eric," Napoleon said with an approving expression and commendatory nod.

"Yes," added Illya stonily, as he next asked, "What about our pen communicators?"

An even broader grin graced Eric Alexander's square-jawed countenance as he wriggle-wagged a forefinger in a teasing fashion…

"I think meself and me team have come up with somethin' you lads'll love."

While walking away in order to retrieve their newest devices for clandestinely contacting the New York U.N.C.L.E. from anywhere in the world, Eric continued. "Even though we have plenty o' PDA cells and regular cells that you buggers could carry so's no one would suspect as being anything all that different to what the majority o' people carry nowadays, I knew that you two would want somethin' special. Somethin' ya could use easily and carry comfortably, so…"

Eric smilingly extended two quasi-expensive 150th Anniversary Limited Edition Cross ballpoint pens: black top, sleek silvery shaft, sturdy metal pocket clip, a total of six black lines encircling said pen under its pocket clip as well as three barely an inch or so above the retractable writing tip. Easily selling for $500 in most retail stores.

"Very beautiful," Napoleon said appreciatively, while also admiring the pen's perfect equilibrium via easily balanced it upon the tip of his forefinger.

"How does it work?" was Illya's always logical and straight-to-the-point question of the still-smiling Aussie.

"Ah," quickly replied Eric as he took Illya's from his hand and pressed upward firmly with his own thumb's tip upon the small silvery ball at the very end of the metal pocket clip until an audible, yet still slight, click! was heard. "Here ya go, mates. Easy as pie…as you American's like to say."

In far less time than it would've taken to manually reconfigure a pen into a cylindrical communicator before, this one automatically and quickly converted itself. First, by permitting the top to pop up and reveal an extremely small-yet-powerful speaker-microphone combo. While, at exactly the self-same instant, the expensive pen's ballpoint bottom popped out about an inch to provide a powerful transmitting/receiving antenna.

"And," said Eric barely an instant after, while placing his thumb's tip atop the pocket clip's smooth surface in order to press ever-so-slightly downward, "it returns to ink pen mode just as quickly. Y'see? And as an extra for you lads, unlike those older pen communicators ya carried, these can actually write."

It was visibly clear that these old-fashioned U.N.C.L.E. agents did, indeed, approve and accept their replacement pieces, seeing as how their original Walther P38s, old screw-on carbine attachments, and old pen communicators were destroyed during their last mission affair far beneath London, England.

"I hate to admit it, Eric," Napoleon shrugged, abandoning his adamant notion that we like the old ways best!, "these truly are acceptable alternatives to our previous pistols and pens. Well done, kid."

"Thank ya, mate," a broadly grinning Eric Alexander said as he next turned green eyes toward the blonde-haired, blue-eyed archetypal hero.

Slowly, Illya lifted his head and, even more slowly, smiled and nodded, "Most acceptable, Eric. Good work."

"Now," Napoleon lamented in a purposely-satirical tone and facial affectation, "all we have to do is put these newest tools to good use…against THRUSH."

"Sounds like just another day at the office, old friend," Illya said somewhat facetiously.

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

**THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR**

Chapter 3

"Knock-knock? Who's there? Death!"

"Sir, we've received word regarding the 'Trojan Horse' mission in New York," nervously related one of the higher ranking operatives, Mitchell Quigley, as he worriedly walked through rapidly sliding-open office door of the deep-underground THRUSH headquarters located in the very heartland of America.

Slowly swiveling toward Mitchell, still shakily standing directly in front of the ornate desk, the man in the metal, ivory, and gem-encrusted mask spoke via his built-in microphone-mini-speaker system. Which had the disquieting dual effect of a singular supremacy as well as a mind-numbing malevolence.

"I presume, from your current demeanor, Agent Quigley, that it was not entirely triumphant."

"N-no, s-sir," stammered Agent Quigley, while swallowing the lump of terror caught in his throat. "Th-though early reports verify th-that the h-head of the New York U.N.C.L.E. is dead…as you instructed…uh, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin…somehow survived."

Half-propping against the spotless desktop with one exposed hand and one constantly-concealed-within-black leather hand as he slowly stood, the masked Darien Driscoll's mini-speaker projected voice snarled, "You were entrusted with this operation, Agent Quigley. It was your contention that the U.N.C.L.E. agent we'd intercepted between 'mission affairs' could be so completely manipulated, mentally, emotionally, that the deaths of not only their female chieftain, but also the two most detested agents to ever trouble THRUSH! The two agents responsible for what happened to me."

Seeing exactly where this was going, which meant Agent Quigley had nothing to lose save his life, the THRUSH operative overseeing such a high-tech brainwashing procedure, designed and directed by him, suddenly seemed a strong soul…

"My methods were successful, Mr. Driscoll. One hundred percent! The very fact that Allison Hall, current director over **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, is indeed dead is proof! The unfortunate fact that both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin escaped unscathed has absolutely nothing to do with…!"

BAM! Thud!

That single sudden explosive shot, from a .50 caliber Desert Eagle semi-automatic, literally blew a huge hole right through the chest of THRUSH Agent Mitchell Quigley at least the size of two bowling balls before he fell dead to the previously stainless steel floor. Now covered in both blood and large clumps of mangled muscle, tissue, and so much more.

Swiftly stepping in through the near-instantly sliding open entryway, MP7 A1 weapon held ready to fire, the THRUSH thug in jumpsuit-and-beret reacted as expected at the sickening sight. Until the masked Darien Driscoll, smoking Desert Eagle still held tightly in the ungloved hand, issued his supreme orders.

"Drag that out and dispose of it. Have my office thoroughly cleaned. And, most importantly, inform Sub-Level Twelve to ready R.A.G.E. I have a past to destroy!"

"Yes, sir!"

Thus, some sixteen hundred plus miles from the New York U.N.C.L.E. headquarters…

Northeast of Keystone, Nebraska, making up a dozen subterranean levels underneath dozens of acres of unoccupied plains…

Here was Darien Driscoll, quickly becoming the most menacing of all THRUSH chieftains, including Andrew Vulcan. A masked miscreant whose sense of survival was equaled only by his exemplar leadership.

Here also was the seemingly miraculous creation of a time-travel device dubbed **R**etro-temporal **A**nti-**G**amma **E**mitting unit. R.A.G.E.

A spheroid chamber heading up a miles-long super-subatomic accelerator that was, in point of actual linear-time truth, the second such mechanism, since the first was recently destroyed underneath London, England streets by Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.

But instead of sending back THRUSH assassins, the masked Darien Driscoll, himself, would travel back 43 years to a point long before he was even born.

Back to a point wherein a young Napoleon Solo and young Illya Kuryakin could not only be located, but killed along with as much of the New York U.N.C.L.E. as possible.

Which would literally turn out to be extremely easy to accomplish since a suitcase carrying plastique explosive would accompany the commanding Masked Master of THRUSH…

"R.A.G.E. is ready, Mr. Driscoll, sir," rumbled the amplified via the observation blister's speaker system voice of Dr. Travis Raphael, the newest head science-tech, since the previous died in the underground destruction beneath the streets of London.

About to step into the open-faced multifaceted spheroid a hundred meters below the observation blister was Darien Driscoll. Dressed in standard Sixties suit-and-tie, carrying the suitcase explosive in his black gloved hand, bejeweled metal-and-ivory mask still hiding his hideously half-scarred face from view, he was ready to return to a past-time most definitely not his own.

"Activate R.A.G.E., Dr. Raphael," commanded the mask's mini-speaker even as Darien looked up with the one good eye, looking out through a single solitary eyehole, narrowing warningly. An unspoken message meant to communicate to Dr. Raphael what the consequences of nonsuccess would invariably be.

"Y-yes, s-sir," loudly gulped Dr. Raphael as Darien stepped inside the sphere that, at Dr. Raphael's control touched command, closed and locked magnetically just as the miles long super-accelerator's titanic quantum tunneling energies gradually grew in strength within until…

**1964**

Two twenty-something men, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, arrived via cabs at Del Floria's tailor shop at exactly the same time.

"Did you have a good weekend, Illya?" Napoleon asked of someone he was quickly becoming quite close to in regards to a growing friendship for a fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent.

"Yes, actually," Illya replied in a pleasant-but-intellectually cool tone and affectation. "I re-read Tolstoy's 'War and Peace'. Quite enjoyable."

Eyeing Illya with what would become a common mien of curious camaraderie meant to last through four decades, Napoleon quipped with crooked grin, "And here I thought I had a great weekend with the former Miss America I spent it with. Silly me."

No sooner had this two-man team, destined for a greatness within the historical frontiers of U.N.C.L.E., stepped down and through the main entrance of Del Floria's…

A two-seater Thunderbird, belonging to a time still "innocent" in relation to a much more complicated period 43 years hence, parked at the curb. Then a mystery man in a mask, carrying a clearly heavy suitcase of curiously polished aluminum, climbed out.

Causing quite a stir amongst several passersby…

"Look at that guy!"

"Why is he wearin' a mask?"

"Think he's part of some sort'a advertisement for a movie or somethin'?"

"Are those real jewels in that mask?"

"What the hell's he carrying? A metal suitcase!"

"Love his T-bird."

Though such was well hidden within the metal-and-ivory mask, a half-smile formed on a half-melted face while standing at the top of the short steps leading down to the entry point into U.N.C.L.E. via Del Floria's.

"And now," he said to himself, even though such was still louder than normal due to the mask's microphone-and-mini-speaker system, "it's time to kill THRUSH's greatest foe's. Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, and Alexander Waverly. And anyone else foolish enough to try and stop me. 'Knock-knock? Who's there? Death!' Heheheh-heh-heheheh."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

**THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR**

Chapter 4

"…time to collect…in blood"

Having learned the location of THRUSH's latest subterranean HQ in America's heartland state of Nebraska, northeast of a city called Keystone…

A privately controlled-by-U.N.C.L.E. Learjet flew Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, both supposedly past their proverbial prime by a couple of decades, high and fast so they could soon step off at the North Platte Regional Airport. Then drive a secured sedan the 53 miles necessary to reach their intended destination in the approximate middle of the state.

Having already passed the somewhat small municipality called Keystone, Illya, at the wheel readily following a GPS screen-map, not one of Napoleon's skills, said, "Not much further, my friend. According to the moving map, we're exactly 6.7 miles from where we'll make a right turn in order to…"

"Uh, Illya," interrupted a half-grinning gray-haired co-agent and close friend of the Russian-born blonde, "it's not necessary for you to give me a guided tour of this section of Nowhere, Nebraska. Just get us to the front door to this THRUSH headquarters. Okay, old friend?"

Scowling slightly, Illya Kuryakin half-seriously said, "I don't know that there is a 'front door', Napoleon. I suppose such could be the case if it's a fake farmhouse sitting atop…"

"Illya!" loudly said Napoleon with both eye-rolling exasperation and a warm-hearted camaraderie that had lasted so long. "Just…drive."

A half-smile of amusement flashed across the seemingly line-free face of the flaxen-haired man from U.N.C.L.E., as Napoleon pulled the brand-new pen communicator from his inside suit's coat pocket.

"Guess it's about time to check in," said the mostly-gray haired, hazel-eyed secret agent as he thumb-pressed up on the ball-end of the silvery Cross pen's pocket clip. Causing an alteration that instantly turned it from writing implement to satellite communications system. "Open Channel D. Open Channel D."

In the seconds it took to receive a satellite-accessed response from Section Five of the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement 1600 miles away, Napoleon Solo realized that the "Open Channel D" call-sign still only applied to these two particular agents, even when using recently-created new pen communicators.

"Channel D open, Mr. Solo, go ahead," said a somewhat sensuous voice clearly belonging to some lovely lady doubling as U.N.C.L.E. Comm Ops.

Smiling a little lecherously, Napoleon promptly reported, "Mr. Kuryakin and I should be arriving at THRUSH's doorstep in a few minutes, so this will be the last contact that can be made until the successful resolution of this mission affair…or else our cry for help. Solo out."

It seemed strange, yet pleasantly so, to watch as his pen communicator swiftly resumed its ink pen configuration with but a firm thumb-press of the top of the pocket clip. After which, this still suave and sexy secret agent slipped the Cross ballpoint pen back into his suit's inside coat pocket.

"Let us hope, Napoleon," Illya Kuryakin jokingly commented, "that the reason for such communication shall be the former and not the latter."

In fun reference to Illya's less-than-side-splitting statement, Napoleon Solo sighed, "With humor like that, Illya, don't give up your 'day job'."

A quiet chuckle came from the Russian-born man from U.N.C.L.E. as the two continued toward their ultimate location, which, at that exact instant, took a literal right-hand turn onto a road identified via GPS screen as East F N…

…which swiftly led to a smallish, seemingly old, though probably brand-new, shack that could've very easily been overlooked had it not already been pre-pinpointed by U.N.C.L.E. computers and constantly transmitted via satellite to GPS screen.

"Doesn't look like much, does it?" said Napoleon as the sedan stopped on the side of said road.

"No," curtly replied Illya in stony seriousness, "but, according to U.N.C.L.E. Intel, this exterior entry point to an underground headquarters for THRUSH is camera-monitored."

"But, being good little U.N.C.L.E. agents," satirically countered a half-smirking Napoleon Solo, "we've got a way around that. Right, Illya?"

A deliberate smile slowly spread across Illya Kuryakin's countenance as something devilish flashed within his eyes of blue.

"But, of course, my dear Napoleon. But, of course."

But what of the THRUSH chieftain with the half-scarred, covered by mask of metal, gems, and ivory who'd taken a trip into a past-time period more than four decades distant?

DINGLE-ding!

No sooner did the supposed proprietor of Del Floria's look in the direction of the ringing bell above the door, reacting with fugacious shock at the sight of the masked stranger and his curious carried-in-single-black-gloved hand suitcase of silvery metal…

"Who the hell—"

Pft! Pft!

Thud!

…two whispered shots from a silencer-equipped pistol straight out of the 21st Century's early years, a Glock 18, sent the supposedly helpless old man face-first to the freshly swept floor. Quite dead.

Holstering his unique-to-1964 partially plastic pistol, the mask-adorned leader of THRUSH 43 years in the future reached over to push the steam presses top down and twice tapping its steam control lever, already understanding that such would allow for easy entry into this New York City U.N.C.L.E. HQ.

Whereby a smiling-under-mask mastermind from a future THRUSH stepped through the curtains of a changing room…

…reached up to twist, to the right, a single specific clothing hook which, in turn, unlocked an otherwise blast-proof dense metal door…

…through which Darien Driscoll could now conclusively kill not just the three he'd risked travel into the past, a physically sickening experience, to permanently remove…

…but any and all others wearing upside-down triangular badges, and loaded and holstered pistols…

…in order to significantly alter his precise "present", including creating a time-line in which he would not end up with a half-scarred countenance that required a mask.

"All right, agents of U.N.C.L.E.," snarled Darien under his breath, even though the mask's mini-speaker still slightly enhanced the overall volume, "time to collect…in blood. Ha, ha, hahahahaha!"

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

**THE BACK TO THE BEGINNING AFFAIR**

Chapter 5/Conclusion

"Thank God I don't need Viagra"

"Who the hell're y—"

Pft!

"Halt!"

Pft!

"Hit the alarm! U.N.C.L.E.'s being inva—"

Pft!

BEEEEE-duuhh! BEEEEE-duuhh! BEEEEE-duuhh! BEEEEE-duuhh!

All hell erupted in the entry hall of **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement. As a masked Darien Driscoll, from 43 years in the future, blatantly strolled along while firing his silencer equipped pistol and carrying, in his black-gloved hand, the shiny suitcase of aluminum containing two very powerful plastique explosives, Semtex and C-4. Seventeen pounds to be precise.

Enough to do some damage and cause substantial loss of life.

But, more importantly…

As expected, a clear bulletproof wall-shield swiftly lowered itself into place at the juncture of main entry hall and antechamber to the all-important office of Number 1, Section 1. Thus, after activating the very volatile contents inside the suitcase of aluminum via a thumb-activated detonator button on the black carrying handle…

…and, then, throw-sliding it along the stainless steel floor to skid to a stop against the clear bulletproof wall-shield…

…just as Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, Walther P38s in hand, hurriedly reached the opposite side in ready-to-fire stances…

…as the man in the mask of metal, ivory, and glittering gems ran away to duck into a doorway at the far end of the entry hall…

BRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!

**2007**

"Ahhgg!"

After such issued forth from a clearly crippled-with-pain Napoleon Solo, who had noticed the self-same reaction from Illya Kuryakin…

"Did you feel that?" he, at last, asked of the blonde, blue-eyed Russian-born man from U.N.C.L.E. A look of loss, personal and profound, dulling his hazel eyes ever so slightly.

"Yes," Illya panted in reply, with a sinisterly similar sense of loss. "If I didn't know better…"

"I'd swear someone just stomped on our graves," Napoleon finished with finality shaking his singular soul. Which also resembled the look still lingering on Illya's face as both over-the-hill operatives had just disrupted power supplies for exterior mini-cameras covering the single solitary entrance into the supposed shack situated northeast of Keystone, Nebraska.

Realizing little time was left while also surmising this subterranean THRUSH headquarters, in the heartland of America, must have a second super-accelerator-driven time-travel device. Meaning someone had just killed their younger Selves in a past-time four decades away.

Also meaning that these men from U.N.C.L.E. had little time left before finding some means of mending such a serious disruption of their shared history.

Taking that elevator that had arrived with three THRUSH thugs, armed with Heckler-and-Koch MP7 A1s whom Napoleon and Illya quickly killed with silencer equipped Glock 18s…

…straight down to the lowest level of the twelve sub-levels in existence beneath dozens of unused acres of flat Nebraska plains…

…whereby these two men from U.N.C.L.E. used swiftly converted-to-carbines Glock 18s, with extra-long clips of ammo, making them more like Glock 18Cs, dropped and fired repeatedly to kill the clutch of THRUSH hoodlums hoping to take them out.

"We've got to hurry!" a rising Illya Kuryakin called to Napoleon Solo, also standing.

"Let's go!"

Napoleon and Illya were now much more than men from U.N.C.L.E. on a semi-standard mission affair. They were men on a mission to save themselves from erasure because of a past-time attack that had clearly killed their younger Selves 43 years prior.

Could their besieged bid for continued existence and survival succeed?

As far as the masked mastermind over a future THRUSH was concerned, the answer to that was no.

Having visually verified, with that one remaining eye via single solitary eyehole in his mask, the bloody deaths of 1964's Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, a half-smile, hidden by his ivory, metal, and gems mask, formed on the half-face of Darien Driscoll, even as he exited the New York U.N.C.L.E.

When I return to my time, mentally mulled the masked Darien as he pushed open the secretive changing room door leading into the counterfeit tailor shop, I shall no longer need to hide my hideousness. For such an accident, caused by Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, shall never exist. But, first…I must locate and kill Andrew Vulcan! Thus insuring my place as supreme head of THRUSH. Hahahaha!

But, before such lustful plans could be properly implemented…

"Still up to your old time-travel tricks, aren't you, Darien?"

"You!"

The older Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, armed with their converted-back-into-silencer equipped Glock 18s held leisurely at their respective sides, stood in two gunslinger stances a short distance from where emerged, from Del Floria's, the masked Darien Driscoll.

"Time to die, Darien," Napoleon said with a half-smile speaking silent volumes in regards to the clear finality of this situation.

"Then, after returning to our future," Illya added diagrammatically, "your 'time machine' shall be destroyed…along with your Nebraska THRUSH headquarters."

Darien knew that long before his shoulder holster held weapon was pulled, the two already armed and, now, aiming U.N.C.L.E. agents from 2007 would blow bloody holes in his suit-and-tie attired frame.

So he made a mad dash for his parked two-seater Thunderbird, quite literally diving straight through the passenger's side window, which happened to be rolled down just like the driver's side since it had no operating air conditioner to adequately cool the masked menace…

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!

…then hastily started its powerful V-8 engine, even as Napoleon and Illya ran in its direction, and squealed out into the street to careen through the Sixties-style traffic so consistently common to New York City. Even in the near-distant past.

"Damn!"

Instantly following Napoleon's exclamation came a brief-but-powerful feeling of déjà vu in regards to some seemingly impossible point between 20th Century and 21st whereby some formerly murderous situation existed that a far different future Napoleon Solo had to physically rectify.

Was that far different future truly of a balding, big-bellied failure?

"Napoleon!" Illya asserted for the second time. "Are you all right?"

"Uh, yeah," Napoleon replied while swiftly shaking off such an impossible pseudo-memory. "Come on, Illya, we've gotta get back to 2007 before…"

"No."

Napoleon glared at Illya as if the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, impossibly unlined, though just as old, Russian-born agent had lost all clarity.

"What're you doing?" contended Napoleon while squinting his hazel eyes at his longtime comrade-in-arms. "We've got to get back to where we first appeared here or else…"

"You don't understand, Napoleon," slowly explained Illya with just a little lamentation to tone and affectation. "Our past selves have been clearly killed. If we return to the future…our present…we shall cease to exist. Only by coming into a moment 43 years gone did we survive at all. Only by staying shall we continue to exist."

After taking seemingly endless seconds to consider all Illya had just explicated, Napoleon finally said, "So…we're trapped here. In 1964."

"At the moment," Illya Kuryakin continued with a weighty shoulder shrug, "we are the only Napoleon and Illya in 1964, so…"

"What about Darien Driscoll?" asked Napoleon Solo with a scowl of concern. "He's back in 2007 and may…"

"No," interjected Illya with a self-assured shake of his fair-haired head. "He's too obsessed with killing us to remain in our former future. He shall keep coming back from time-to-time until…"

"So you're saying," inserted Napoleon contemplatively, "that we can expect to see more of that masked bastard in the Sixties you and I are now in."

After firmly replying via a hearty head nod, Illya added, "More than that, however, I suspect Darien Driscoll shall use R.A.G.E. to come back and try to kill potentially important historical figures while still trying to kill you and me. My American friend…the Sixties have never needed Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin more."

Begrudgingly agreeing, Napoleon heaved a very heavy sigh and said, "Guess we need to go into Del Floria's and tell Mr. Waverly what's happened."

Just then, as the two over-the-hill and back-in-the-past agents of U.N.C.L.E. proceeded down toward the door of a storefront tailor shop in order to, first, police the single dead body in Del Floria's, as well as helping do much the same inside the recently assaulted New York U.N.C.L.E. headquarters…

"Guess I have some calls to make later on," said Napoleon glibly. "I'm sure there are some long lost lady-friends of mine that might need my still special attention…as well as one hell of a long explanation. Thank God I don't need Viagra."

END


End file.
